Dulce et decorum est
by Darthishtar
Summary: Voldemort has fallen and life should move on. Unfortunately, McGonagall will only let Harry, Ron and Hermione move on after they've made a visit to St. Mungo's.
1. Chapter 1

There were no signs posted, no decrees made, but by some unspoken agreement, the rest of the wizarding world found enough compassion in their hearts to leave the Boy-Who-Lived alone for a few hours. Kreacher and a handful of the uninjured house elves of Hogwarts had turned up sometime in the morning with mounds of scrambled eggs, platters of chipolatas and goblets of pumpkin juice, but after the first few bites to show their gratitude, none of them felt much like eating. There was too much to say and too much that couldn't be put into words for them to stuff their faces just yet.

The food was still there, balanced on top of a school trunk, when Harry finally awoke. The steam still rising from the eggs suggested that someone—probably Hermione or perhaps Kreacher—had put a warming charm on the feast, but no matter how loudly his stomach rumbled, none of it appealed to him. He knew that at some point, he would keenly feel the need to eat, but it was not a priority just yet.

After a few moments of enjoying the warmth of his blankets and the sounds of a few birds who had braved the possibility of a concussion to perch on crumbling towers, he turned his head towards Ron's bed.

Not surprisingly, really, Ron's appetite had already kicked in. He wasn't eating his usual shovelful, but he was steadily working his way through a stack of pancakes while Hermione looked on.

"What time is it?" he asked with a cottony mouth.

"What day is it?" Ron corrected. "You've been out all night."

So the pigeons weren't as brave as he'd originally thought. They'd waited for the dust to settle and then moved back in.

"Kreacher left a stack of food for you and it's still not gone?" Harry asked, "Are you feeling all right?"

Ron grinned at him and leaned across to offer a piece of toast. Harry accepted, but did not eat it.

"No," Hermione answered calmly, "this is the second round." She took a piece of toast from Ron, but like Harry, left it alone. "How are you"

He considered this for a long moment. His bruises still throbbed dully and he'd discovered a few new aches, but there was nothing that gave him real concern.

"I'll survive," he said honestly.

Ron chuckled. "That's about all we can expect, is it?"

"I hope I don't break the habit," Harry agreed. "Any word from the others?"

"Dad stopped in last night," Ron answered. "He said they're not going without us, but we should take our time."

"Going?" Harry echoed. "Going where?"

"The Burrow for now," Hermione responded. "They want the whole family home."

At one point, he had felt it odd that the Weasleys treated him as one of their own. After all that they had suffered, after everyone they had lost together, there was no denying it.

"Have you seen..."

"He was the only one who came looking for us," Ron interrupted. "I think there are strict orders from Kingsley, but I'd be surprised if someone hadn't tried."

"I wonder where Rita Skeeter is in all of his," Hermione added.

"Maybe she snuck onto the grounds and got squashed by a giant," he said hopefully.

"No," Harry said after a moment of consideration. "She's in her flat in London, already making up her version of what happened."

It was the first time that all three of them had laughed at something since before they got to Hogsmeade and, while his ribs ached, it felt right. Without waiting for an invitation, he stood up and climbed onto the bed next to Hermione. Rather than edge away, she leaned comfortably against his shoulder.

"So," he said after another minute of companionable silence, "where do we go from here?"

"The Great Hall," Hermione suggested. "There will be someone there who can point us in the right direction."

"All right."

Harry found his trainers under the bed and stowed his wand in his pocket before following Ron from the dormitory. The house towers were among the few places not affected by the battle, since no one had been reported trying to lure Death Eaters into the Hufflepuff common room or anything of the sort. The cheerful light of the lamps on the side tables and the neatly-arranged armchairs that sat next to stacks of books forgotten in the evacuation seemed out of place.

Even more out of place was Nearly-Headless Nick. He was a common sight in Gryffindor Tower, but Harry had never seen him standing at attention as if he'd been commanded to let no man pass.

As they left the staircase, his head turned slightly to look at them, though the rest of him did not. "My lords!" he greeted cheerfully. "My lady."

"Hello, Sir Nicholas," they answered immediately.

"All right, Nick?" Harry asked.

"I am quite well," N ick answered. "I bring tidings from Professor McGonagall."

Ron groaned and Hermione immediately straightened her shoulders as if the Deputy Headmistress were already with them. Harry nodded to Nick, inviting further explanation.

"Lady Minerva hopes you slept well and expresses the wish that you join her in her office as soon as convenience allows."

Ron immediately turned with a hopeful look. "You've still got the Invisibility Cloak, haven't you?"

"You faced Death Eaters and destroyed a Horcrux" Hermione chided, "and you're avoiding the Transfiguration teacher?"

"It's McGonagall," Ron answered. "Dolohov wanted to kill me, not give me detention."

"Don't be ridiculous," she answered. "Sir Nicholas, please let Professor McGonagall know that we—all three of us-will be there shortly."

"We're right behind you," Harry added in agreement.

Ron waited until they were alone in the common room once more, and then turned a hopeful look on him. "Well done," he said. "With Nick out of the way, we can..."

"What are we going to tell her?" Harry asked.

"The bare minimum," Hermione suggested. "That is to say..."

"The truth," he concluded. "But we won't give her any information unless she asks for it."

"So, nothing about the Deathly Hallows," Ron suggested.

"We'll have to take it in stride if she asks about the Horcruxes," Hermione agreed. "They picked a fight with Voldemort so we could find Ravenclaw's diadem, so I think we can entrust the basics of our quest to Professor McGonagall."

Without waiting for Ron to add another rule, he strode towards the portrait hole. Nick met them halfway down the corridor and served as a kind of honor guard as they picked their way through the less intact parts of the castle. The bloodstains on the cobblestones had been cleaned, but they had left most of the battlegrounds as they had been at the end of the battle.

Nick stopped outside of a familiar door and Harry knocked. "Come," Professor McGonagall called.

She looked no less harried than she had at the end of the battle, but Harry supposed that she had been one of the main reasons he'd been left alone for so long. She had taken care of Hogwarts when there were students to evacuate, injured to care for and dead to bury.

"Professor," Harry said respectfully, "you wanted to see us?"

"Yes," she replied. "If you'll have a seat, our guests will be arriving in a few minutes."

He resisted the urge to give Hermione an alarmed look, but at the mention of guests, he slipped his hand into his front pocket and touched the Invisibility Cloak for reassurance. If things got out of hand, they could still run for it.

"Who are we waiting for?" Ron asked bluntly.

"No one you need fear," McGonagall answered. "I think you've all had enough of a lie-in and you have other duties."

"With all due respect, I'd rather decide on my own when I can take on more duties," Harry stated.

She peered over her spectacles at him and then glanced towards the fire, perhaps hoping that someone would arrive by Floo and explain things for her.

"I am not speaking of your duties to the wizarding world," she corrected. "I think you have gone above and beyond what we should have ever asked of you, Potter. You must look after yourselves now. And each other."

"Who are we waiting for?" Harry echoed Ron's question. "You're not sending us on holiday, are you?"

She smiled tightly. "Madam Pomfrey should have seen you after the battle," she answered, "but we will not trouble her further. I took the liberty of contacting St. Mungo's to ask that you be seen by their finest Healers."

He wanted to protest that he hadn't suffered anything worse than a few knocks around the head and a split lip, but that was so far from the truth that he couldn't bring himself to say it. If nothing else, he had been struck with the Killing Curse for a second time. Even if the healers sent him home with nothing more than a bandage and a restorative draught, it would please McGonagall.

"All right," he said. "Is that all?"

"For now." She glanced towards the others as if asking permission to take things a step further. "Do you have any unfinished business here?"

He had no proper answer for such a loaded question, but since they had agreed to only give her as much information as she needed, he shook his head. "Do you know when Neville and the others will be released from the hospital wing?"

"Neville was released last night," she answered. "Miss Brown is in St. Mungo's as well until they are able to determine the extent of her injuries. Most of your friends have already been taken home, but they will be glad to know that you asked after them."

The accounting of the casualties reminded him of others who were worried for his welfare. "The Weasleys..."

"Have been informed of my requst," McGonagall responded.

"If we let Mum in, we'll never make it to St. Mungo's," Ron pointed out. "Should we take that chance?"

Before they could even consider that alternative, the fireplace filled with green flames and a stern-looking woman stepped out.

"Mr. Potter, Ms. Granger, Mr. Weasley," she greeted them. "Healer Eccleston."

The fireplace came to life once more and a younger man arrived on McGonagall's hearth rug. "Apprentice Healer DeWitt," he added. "Are we ready to go?"

"What do we need?" Hermione interjected, sounding somewhat put out that no one had yet consulted her on this entire arrangement. "How long shall we be your guests?"

"We'll know more once you've been evaluated," Eccleston responded. "As for what you require, we will provide for all of your basic needs."

"And no chance of staying here?" Ron asked hopefully. "We don't really need someone fussing over us. Mum can do _that."_

"You will go with Healer Eccleston or I will have the Ministry mandate it," McGonagall threatened. "Our new Minister of Magic is quite concerned about your well-being."

McGonagall, for all her sternness, was not one to pull rank. She would assign detentions or take points at the first sign of trouble, but this was the first time that Harry had really heard her issue a threat.

"St. Mungo's it is," he agreed.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Sorry for the abysmal delay in posting again. I'm trying to finish a book and it took a bet from fellow writer Kateydidnt to make me write more on this at this time. This chapter has been in the works for months. Two more chapters will happen this week.

It was no surprise that Ron was ushered into the fireplace first; Harry was probably their primary reason for being there, but Ron had made enough off-handed comments about escape plans for them to consider him a flight risk. Hermione and DeWitt went next and Eccleston had just stepped purposefully onto McGonagall's hearth rug when Harry backed away from the fireplace. He immediately felt both pairs of eyes on him as they prepared for whatever he was about to ask next.

"I do have some unfinished business," he admitted.

He was again treated to McGonagall's scrutiny, but after a moment, she declared, "If you require a favor, name it, Potter. We shall see to it."

"It has to be me," he insisted. Before they could ask further questions, he blurted out, "I need to see to something."

McGonagall squinted so hard at her spectacles that he half-expected them to slide off of her nose. Her eyebrows drew together until they nearly met in the middle. Eccleston dipped her chin so she could look Harry in the eye. "And this can't wait?"

His stomach turned over at the thought of what they might find when he returned from St. Mungo's. "It can't wait," Harry confirmed. "And it has to be done in utmost secret."

In other words, they couldn't just stump up the path to Hogsmeade and break the Shrieking Shack's door down while half the village watched in fascination. He was glad of the mid-morning light, since they wouldn't need to light any lamps or wands to find their way.

"I could use some help," he said pointedly.

He had seen McGonagall's current expression before, usually a few days before the Gryffindors sat their yearly exams. More than once, Hermione had been so eager to do something right that she had begged for a few extra hours in the Transfiguration classroom. Usually, the Gryffindor Head of House was accommodating, but when she wore this expression, it meant that she wanted the person in front of her to accept the need for a rest. If the battle wasn't won in the next few moments, he would have to rebel and go off on his own.

"I cannot accompany you," McGonagall replied after a few moments. "But we can trust one of the others."

She crossed to the hearth and tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fire before calling out, "Filius! Might I have a word?"

There was no need to scarper off and cause another panic. McGonagall had yielded and the only person looking disgruntled about it was Eccleston. She obviously felt that whatever Harry was up to could certainly wait until he'd had a few restorative draughts and maybe a few diagnostic spells.

A few moments later, Professor Flitwick emerged from the fireplace, dusting himself off. "Potter," he greeted squeakily,. "You look well."

It was a lie—a polite one—that he expected he would hear a lot in the days to come. But Harry supposed that still having a scab where he'd cut his lip was a small matter next to the fact that he had come back from the nearly-dead.

"Thanks, Professor," he said.

Flitwick turned to McGonagall and she immediately answered his unspoken question. "Mr. Potter needs an escort," she explained. "Will you assist him?"

"I would be glad to," the tiny professor responded with his usual lack of guile. He turned and bowed shortly to Eccleston. "Madam, are you coming with us?"

"That's not necessary," Harry interjected.

He didn't know Eccleston at all. He had no reason to distrust her, but he had no reason to share this duty with her. His 'unfinished business' would just have to be something she understood once she'd learned to ask the right questions. If she never understood him that well, he wouldn't be upset. He could count on one hand the number of people who needed to hear this story and there was no room for a complete stranger, no matter how well-meaning they were.

"I'll see that the others are safely checked in," Eccleston offered graciously.

Harry had to shorten his steps in order to keep pace with the Charms professor, but they walked the deserted corridors in silence. They passed the Grey Lady and Professor Vector, but none of them apparently felt like a conversation. The Grey Lady gave him a solemn bow of her head and glided away and Professor Vector strode past them without a second glance.

Harry's first view of the grounds affected him in a way that the thought of Snape's corpse had not. There had been more important things to attend to than debris. While the bodies had been retrieved and the worst of the messes had been cleared away, a good portion of the Forest was burned away and parts of the castle were scattered across the lawn like a bizarre set of giants' building blocks. He recognized a part of the Astronomy Tower by the carvings on the stonework.

He hadn't seen the grounds since the night of the battle and even then, he had seen flashes of light near the Quidditch pitch, had vaguely marked the path the giants took past Hagrid's cabin.

And yet he knew exactly how many steps lay between him and the Forest. He had spent seven years trudging through all sorts of weather to reach the greenhouses or the Gryffindor locker rooms, but had never bothered to count how far it was to each one. He could remember, though, that it had taken just over one hundred paces to reach the spot where he'd last seen Ginny. He didn't have to look for a landmark to know that it had taken six hundred more steps for him to reach the edge of the forest. If he continued on this path, he would stand in the place where he had finally used the Resurrection Stone.

But that was not his intended destination. While the forest crumbled and the towers toppled, the Whomping Willow remained upright and untouched. He approached it carefully, perfectly aware of how easily provoked the thing could be.

"_Wingardium Leviosa," _Flitwick called.

A severed branch darted underneath the lazily waving branches and prodded at the knot on the trunk. The tree went still. Without a word, Harry led the way down the tunnel.

For the first time, there was no sense of real urgency in traveling to the Shrieking Shack. It was not what he might call a pleasant morning stroll, but there was no mass murderer upstairs and no Dark Lord awaiting him at the end of this journey. Only the man he had never thought of as a friend or even an ally.

He knew even before they reached the end of the tunnel that they had waited too long. It was not just the stench of beginning decomposition, but they should not have forgotten a fallen hero at all, much less for more than a day. The Hogwarts survivors had attended to Tom Riddle's body after a fashion, but somehow, Professor Snape had not been afforded the same courtesy.

Flitwick covered his mouth and nose with his robe, but Harry trudged dully up the stairs until he found the crumpled remains of Severus Snape.

The first order of business was _Scourgify._ He dropped to one knee, prepared to do more good, but his hands shook as he reached out to the Potions Master. He balled his hands into fists to stop the tremors, and then breathed in carefully through his mouth.

There was not much he could do for Snape, but he could give him some of the same care that he had shown for another hero. Harry reached out and folded the limp arms over Snape's chest, unfurled the legs from their awkward position and finally palmed his eyes shut. Snape did not look at rest, but at least now he could have been sleeping.

"Is there anything else we can do for him?" he asked quietly.

"There is a Conservation Charm," Professor Flitwick answered immediately. "I will consult with Professor Slughorn, as he will know best how to prepare our friend for burial."

Harry felt no shock at the term, but he was grateful that Flitwick was willing to take that for granted. "Thanks, Professor," he murmured.

He left a hand on Professor Snape's shoulder for a moment, not sure what he was waiting for. It didn't feel like his duty was complete, but there was nothing more to be done. If it were up to those left behind, Severus Snape's remains would be shoved into a hastily-dug grave before the memorials of the deserving took place. Harry couldn't let that happen, but he doubted if McGonagall would let him stall long enough to make a convincing argument. It would seem strange for the Boy-Who-Lived to plead the case of a deceased Death Eater, but he had to make them understand that, like Fred Weasley and Remus Lupin, Severus Snape was a martyred member of the Order of the Phoenix.

That thought and the resolve that came with it finally made him feel as though he had come far enough to leave things behind for a time. "I think we're done here."

Flitwick spoke after another moment of silence. "Where do you want him kept?"

"Away from the others," Harry said immediately.

It was not a very helpful answer, but it was all he had. After a long moment of consideration, the tiny professor offered a suggestion: "We can keep him in the headmaster's study. Whatever his role in all of this, that office is still his."

"Can you keep it..." He thought of the crumbling gargoyles. "He can't be found until I return."

"Of course," Flitwick agreed.

"And the gargoyles are in no condition to stand guard."

"There are other ways," the other replied. "I will take charge to see that no one enters. There are even certain charms and potions that could mask..." He waved a hand expressively in front of his face to indicate the beginning decay. "I will see to it personally, Mr. Potter."

Professor Flitwick was not the most formal of the Hogwarts professors, but it was good to know that he could be trusted.

"As to how..."

"I have my Invisibility Cloak," Harry suggested. "I shouldn't bring it to St. Mungo's."

It wasn't that he wanted to leave it behind, but it was too much of a temptation otherwise. Without any hope of breaking out, he might be able to focus on less pressing matters.

"It will wait for you at Hogwarts," Flitwick promised.

With that decided, Harry stood and raised his wand. "_Mobilicorpus."_

Four years ago, he had left the Shrieking Shack with Snape's body floating haphazardly under Sirius' direction. There had been so much to take in that night that Harry hadn't cared when the Potions Master's head scraped the ceiling. This time, he and Flitwick formed a kind of somber honor guard, making sure that no further harm would come to the fallen hero.

Harry had expected the Floo Network to turf them out of the fireplace in St. Mungo's, but when they emerged, they were in a small living room not unlike the Dursleys'. There were overstuffed armchairs and potted plants, but no pictures to explain whose house they had just invaded.

"Did we miss our grate?" Harry asked.

"No," Healer Eccleston assured him. "Not all St. Mungo's entrances are through department store windows. This is one of our more private wards."

That was an understatement. If this was a medical ward, it wasn't like any Harry had ever imagined. There were no Healers, no cauldrons of Potions simmering on a side table. The lilies-of-the-valley on the coffee table weren't yawning, but sitting motionless in their water as ordinary Muggle flowers did.

"Right through here, if you please, Mr. Potter," Eccleston said politely, moving towards a door next to the china cabinet.

A doorbell sounded behind them and a harried-looking wizard bustled through the door on his way to greet the visitor. A clamor of voices followed him through the swinging door, but they were cut off as soon as the latch caught. Eccleston rested a hand on Harry's shoulder to restrain him as the wizard returned with an unconscious young girl and two sobbing people who Harry assumed to be her parents.

"Heard a bang…" the father hiccupped loudly. "And when we went upstairs, she wasn't moving. Not sure what she was trying, but we can't get her to wake…"

The door closed behind the four of them and Harry looked inquisitively at Eccleston. "This is also the entrance we use for emergencies relating to Muggle-borns," she said quietly. "It is our experience that the witch or wizard's family might be more traumatized by the usual crowd at St. Mungo's than they are by whatever emergency brought them here."

Harry thought of the wizard complaining of cursed shoes and a young witch with feathery wings and couldn't disagree. It was something of a relief to be back in a world of minor catastrophes, where underage magic could mean a botched potion or bushy eyebrows instead of poisoning or death.

"Right through here," Eccleston echoed.

The door swung open and he was greeted by cries of relief from Ron and Hermione. Hermione was the first to reach him, seizing his hand and pulling him towards a bank of chairs against one wall. This room looked much more like an ordinary doctor's office, the sort that Aunt Petunia had brought him to when she was worried that his more serious illnesses might be contagious. There were uncomfortable chairs and a wireless radio playing the Weird Sisters and a table full of old Witch Weekly issues and even a spare copy of the _Quibbler _where Harry had given an interview. Apparently, they'd never binned that one after the _Daily Prophet_ bought the exclusive interview.

"Where _have _you been?" she asked in a hushed voice. "We knew that someone would send word if there was trouble, but that could take ages."

"McGonagall wasn't giving you a hard time, was she?" Ron demanded. "This was supposed to be _her_ idea."

"_Snape_," Harry hissed. Then, raising his voice to a normal level, "Sorry to keep you waiting. We just got held up at Hogwarts."

Hermione frowned. "But he's not…"

"I took care of him," Harry clarified.

It would be easier to cast a _Muffliato _charm than to try and come up with small talk for the Healers' sake, but he didn't want to think about what the Healers might do if they thought that Harry, Ron and Hermione were keeping secrets.

"You're all right," Ron diagnosed. "Have a seat. We've just got to get through some unpleasant stuff before they let us in."

There were few things that truly crossed over from Muggle society to wizard. Even things as ordinary as chess or tea shops had the ability to be magical, but there was something utterly mundane about hospital forms, no matter how much magical powers you possessed.

"Medical history," Ron read off. "No, I don't remember when I had dragon pox. Mum keeps track of that sort of thing. Is that important?"

"No, I have never experienced wand-related muscular atrophy," Harry answered. It wasn't something he'd even considered and now he flexed his arm nervously as if expecting the symptom to manifest itself now that it had been brought up. He didn't know what wand-related muscular atrophy was supposed to mean, but maybe it would feel like the time that Professor Lockhart's bungled spell had left his arm boneless and useless. "I do sometimes have a tingle."

"Hermione, here's one for you," Ron said. "They want to know if my dentist has ever used the now-discontinued Cavity-corking Concoction. Do they have anything like that…"

Hermione was the only one who apparently hadn't amused herself with the medical forms. Ron's comment trailed off at the expression on her face. She wasn't focusing; she looked both depressed and perplexed.

"All right?" Harry asked.

"They want an emergency contact," she said quietly.

"Next of kin will do," Healer DeWitt commented as he entered. "Do you have any questions?"

"I'm not sure what this means," Harry admitted, pointing out several unfamiliar terms.

"If you'd had it, you would have known it," DeWitt said with a wink. "Do you need the Muggle-born version?"

"Yes, please."

He tapped the form with his wand and a kind of translation appeared in its place. It was much easier to understand questions about a family history of diabetes or heart disease.

"Back in a mo'," the Healer said cheerily.

The door shut behind him and Harry turned back to find Hermione tapping her quill restlessly on the parchment. A moment later, his mind caught up to what she had said before DeWitt's entrance.

"Emergency contact," she said to refresh his memory. "Tonks was my alternative."

Frankly, he'd never been asked about an emergency contact. There was never enough time between the disaster and the hospital wing to work out who needed to know. Professor McGonagall had always been enough.

"I don't think this is the best way to remind Monica and Wendell that they have an extended family," Hermione commented.

"Don't be a git," Ron interrupted. "You're as much a Weasley as Percy. And Mum would kill you if you _didn't _think of us as your backup family."

Without another comment, they both scribbled in Molly Weasley as their emergency contact.

The door opened and it was Eccleston who came in this time. "We're ready for you," he announced.

"We're not done," Harry pointed out.

"We can go over the rest later," Eccleston said, making it sound like both a threat and a promise. "Through here, please."

Harry and Ron glanced at each other and took a deep breath, but Hermione grimly nodded and rose to her feet without argument. They scrambled to follow her and followed Eccleston into what looked like a laundry room.

"Pajamas, two pairs each," she instructed. "Two pairs of socks, one pair of slippers."

"If it's all the same to you, I"d rather stay in my own clothes," Ron said gruffly.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but Eccleston seemed to have heard this objection many times before and pulled a pair of pajamas off the top of the stack before handing them to Ron.

"Your clothes will be tested for any materials that might be doing you harm," she said. "And we want you to be as comfortable as possible. This is not up for debate."

Soon, they were laden down with pajamas, slippers and socks and being directed to patient changing rooms. Ron hadn't grumbled about anything else, but he looked as though he was doing it under protest.

"Look on the bright side," Harry encouraged Ron. "They're not maroon."


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: This is more of a transitional chapter, but I wanted this to be separate from what will come next. And what will come next will be by September 1. It's nearly done, but this was ready to post first.

The next fight was not over pajamas or medical histories or even work that had been left undone. It was over sleeping arrangements.

"It's our policy to segregate patients," DeWitt said patiently for what seemed to be the three hundredth time. "It promotes speedy recovery and…"

"We're not staying in separate rooms," Ron said for the three hundredth time. "And you can take your speedy recovery and promote it up…"

"_Ron_,"Hermione said sharply.

It was her Mrs. Weasley tone and was well-chosen, since he deflated a little. Hermione had been as staunchly in support of a shared room as Harry or Ron, but she would not tolerate this sort of disrespect. Before Ron could find something less offensive but no less effective to say, Hermione reached into the pocket of her pajamas and pulled out—unsurprisingly—her beaded bag. There was no need to ask why she had brought it, since Harry had rarely gone without his Invisibility Cloak and he reckoned that Hermione felt her handbag to be as essential to survival.

"I don't mean to be difficult," she said, trying for a new tactic. "If arranging for a shared room is too difficult, I have brought our own tent. We may have to evict a fox, though."

That did it. The Healers seemed to be at a loss as to which was worse—the idea of their patients kipping in any kind of tent or the threat that they might let a few Welsh woodland creatures out of the bag. Harry seriously doubted that there were any unwanted tenants in the bag, but he wasn't about to point that out. She was being the voice of brutal reason when trying to talk to the Healers had failed every time.

"I'll make the arrangements," DeWitt said stonily.

"Thank you," Hermione called almost cheerfully.

DeWitt did not return immediately, but when he did, he was accompanied by a silver-haired witch who at least looked as though she had a sense of humor.

"Hello," she said quietly, "I'm Head Healer Falstaff. I hope you are comfortable here."

She sounded more like a hotel concierge than the head doctor, but she hadn't come to give them a scolding or talk them into something, so that was a welcome change.

"Harry," he introduced himself "This is Ron and that's Hermione."

They had put their full names down on the medical histories, but he was _not_ going to stand for anyone calling him Mr. Potter here.

"Welcome," she said. "I know you'd rather stay together, but there are some cases in which we would like to afford you your privacy."

"Such as what?" Ron challenged.

"Such as a complete physical," Falstaff responded.

They all immediately shrank into themselves as if trying to avoid being noticed. Hermione folded her arms over her chest and buried her chin in her chest. Both Falstaff and DeWitt smiled at that.

"You would be surprised at how many of our patients have that exact reaction," DeWitt said. "It's standard procedure."

"So you can make sure we're not coming down with dragon pox while you're asking about our feelings towards our Charms teacher?" Hermione asked drily.

"Precisely."

"All right." She let her arms drop to her sides. "Can I request…"

"If you'd like, Healer Eccleston is available now," Falstaff said without needing her to finish the sentence. "Harry, Healer DeWitt can sort you out and I'll be happy to meet with you, Ron."

Harry suspected that Ron's assignment was some kind of punishment for resisting nearly everything that had been proposed since they left Gryffindor Tower. Ron stumped off in Falstaff's wake, while DeWitt continued to smile and gestured down a right-hand corridor.

"This way, Harry."

"Thanks."

They went into a room that looked even more like an ordinary Muggle doctor's office than the waiting room had. After he had been seated on the cushioned examination table, Harry was told to open his mouth and stick out his tongue. DeWitt immediately inserted a tongue depressor, but seemed to not even give his throat a passing glance. He extracted the depressor and stood, watching it for nearly a minute.

"When was the last time you used Polyjuice Potion?"

"I…" He blinked. "What?"

"This is one of our diagnosticks," he said. "There are several varieties, but this one alerts us to any potions or elixirs that you may be taking."

"I haven't," Harry protested. "Not since Christmas, anyway."

"That explains how small an influence it's having," DeWitt considered. "And you've recently been treated with essence of dittany." He tilted his head to stare at the colors on the depressor. "Topical application only. May I ask why?"

"Because the vaults at Gringotts have impressive security," Harry said without thinking.

DeWitt promptly dropped the diagnostic. "Damn," he muttered. "We'll have to use another one."

"I'm sorry," Harry said. "Doesn't it still show my readings?"

"Yes, but the last patient we saw in here had been experimenting with deflating draughts for weight loss purposes and you seem to have tried it since you last took the test. I doubt that reading is accurate."

"Sorry," Harry echoed. "Did it work?"

"A little too well," DeWitt responded before administering another diagnostick. "There we go. Trace of Polyjuice essence of dittany and…" He frowned. "One moment."

Without another word, he stepped out of the room. It was several minutes before he returned.

"All right?" Harry asked.

"I just hadn't seen this one," DeWitt admitted, indicating a blotch of bright gold next to the brownish stain of dittany. "When did you use felix felicis?"

"Oh." It had been the night that Dumbledore had died and that felt like seven lifetimes ago. But it had been near the end of the school year and before Ginny was to sit her O.W.L.s. Harry crafted his response more carefully this time, so he would not startle the Healer again. "Last year. I didn't realize that it would turn up on a diagnostick."

"Most potioneers will tell you that its effects only last for a few hours," DeWitt said, "but recent research says that the drinker may benefit from it at select times for the rest of his life."

It was unlikely that the phial of liquid luck which he had won with the teenage Snape's instructions had anything to do with the final battle. Ron and Hermione had both lost friends. Ron had lost a brother. They had nearly lost Harry himself. But they had come out of the Battle of Hogwarts alive and able to recover and that might not have been coincidental. He had simply seen it as a blessing.

"I didn't know," he commented.

"We first check the potions levels so that we can know which medicines must be avoided," DeWitt said, apparently interested in keeping him well-informed of the procedure. "Take this. Gargle—do not swallow—and spit it back into this basin"

He handed over a small glass of blue liquid. Harry raised it and gargled while it fizzed madly. Even after he had spat it into the indicated basin, it seemed to bubble at the back of his throat.

"Don't worry if you still feel the effect," DeWitt added hastily. "That will wear off. I will give this to our potioneer and be right back."

He had no idea what the blue potion was meant to do, but there was a chance that it was also a diagnostic tool. He squinted at the bottles on the shelf, but there were four phials that color and all of them were marked in a Healer's messy shorthand.

He craned his neck around to give the rest of the room a once-over. There were, as DeWitt said, more varieties of diagnosticks than he could keep track of, some of them a different color or shape than the last. He couldn't see a single stethoscope or pocket light, but he supposed that there was a potion for one and a wand for the other.

And then he saw one tool that he had not expected to find in St. Mungo's. It was stored on its side, looking as though it were an item in Aunt Petunia's kitchen, though he knew she would never approve of one being in her house. His heart thudded nervously at the idea that they would want to use one of those for an examination.

Before he could sort out what to do about the item, DeWitt returned. "All right, Harry?"

"What's next?"

"Well, our potioneer is analyzing the draught to see if you have any internal injuries that we should know about. It's one of those things that is difficult to self-diagnose."

"Ah." He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. "And that's that?"

"Not for a complete physical examination," DeWitt said. "Off with your shirt."

Out came the surprisingly ordinary stethoscope so DeWitt could check his lungs. He tested Harry's blood pressure with a spell, lest he forget where he was. He tested Harry's reflexes with a tap of his wand and checked his eyes before sitting down and retrieving a miniature quill from his pocket. He tapped the quill against his forehead three times and then set it on a roll of parchment, where it bgan jotting down what Harry assumed were notes.

"You seem to be experiencing pain when you breathe. Has that been going on long?"

"I've got a few bruises from the battle," Harry responded. He was going to leave it at that.

"And that burn mark?" DeWitt pressed on. "Is that from the battle as well?"

"No," said Harry dully. It was the scarlet oval where the Horcrux had burned his skin and where Hermione had used a Severing Charm to remove the locket. Dittany had been able to ease the pain, but a scar still marked his chest. "Just from the war."

DeWitt seemed about to say something, but held his tongue. The quill paused, waiting for more information.

"The good news is that there is no indication of snake venom resulting from that bite," he commented. "If you would like, we have our own medicines that can remove those marks."

It was tempting, but those scars were as much a representation of what he'd been through as his scar. It felt wrong to deny that they had ever been there. But he would not make a decision, not yet.

"I'll let you know," he said.

"Do you know which curses you have been subjected to?" DeWitt asked, probably another ordinary question that had an extraordinary answer.

"Recently?"

"Yes."

That meant that there was no need to mention Malfoy's _tarantallegra_ in the Duelling Club or every time he had been Disarmed in Dumbledore's Army, but he still had to admit that he had most recently been hit with the Cruciatus and Killing Curses. DeWitt's quill stood still for a moment and then scribbled a single sentence at the end of the current paragraph.

"All right," DeWitt said, not having anything better to say. "For someone who has thrice survived a Killing Curse, you are in remarkably good health."

"Thank you," Harry said solemnly. "When will the potioneer be finished?"

"The analysis will be finished in the morning," DeWitt answered. "In the meantime, we can offer you food and drink and order you to get a good night's rest."

"But It's mid-day," Harry protested.

"And you wouldn't like to go back to bed?" DeWitt asked shrewdly. "I promise we'll wake you if there's any news of…well, you'll know if another war starts."

It was probably meant to be a joke, but Harry didn't find it even worthy of a smile. He pulled his pajama top back over his unruly hair and waited for the quill to stop moving.

"Can I eat in my room?"

Mistaking his question for cooperation, Healer DeWitt nodded. "I'll bring it to you there."

"Thank you."

Ron and Hermione were already there, Ron grudgingly tucked so tightly into bed that Harry supposed Falstaff had done it herself. Hermione was still talking to Eccleston in a low voice. Harry overheard something about mushrooms and assumed she was giving instructions on how to keep a Weasley happy.

"Really," Harry said, "it would be easier just to hire his Mum to do the cooking here. He'll hate everything you cook otherwise."

"I've had exposure to Dementors," Ron called. "Can I have a bit of chocolate?"

"Only if you eat your greens," DeWitt said.

"I know where to find your family," Eccleston said, nodding to Ron, "and we are aware of Hermione's…situation. Is there anyone you'd like us to contact, Harry?"

The answer came to him immediately. "If you can find a way to contact Hestia Jones or Dedalus Diggle…Kingsley Shacklebolt or Mr. Weasley will know how…They're the one's looking after my Aunt's family."

"And you'd like them to visit?" Ron asked incredulously.

"No," Harry admitted, "but I'd like them to know I came out of this all right. I'll be in touch."

It was a quite impersonal message to send to such supposedly close family, but Eccleston didn't question it. She bowed her head to him.

"I'll get to work on that after dinner," she promised.

The moment that DeWitt had followed Eccleston from the room, Harry cast a muffliato charm on the room. Ron tried to sit up properly, but was momentarily encumbered by his blankets. Hermione straightened her posture and turned towards Harry, all ears.

"There's a pensieve here," Harry said in a low voice.

"I know," Hermione said. "They had one in my examination room as well. They must use them for consultations."

"I don't care," Harry said. "I want to borrow one."

"Why do you want to nick one?" Ron blurted out. "Dumbledore didn't leave you…or did you still have what Snape gave you?"

"Just my own memories this time," Harry rejoined. "There are some things I want you to see."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Thanks go to Kateydidnt, who issued the challenge of posting Chapter 2's revision and the next two chapters of the story before September hit. The good news is that if she has lost her challenge, I get to make her write her very fantastic Harry Potter story. I'm a cruel victor. You'll also recognize most of the dialogue and action from this, as the latter half of this chapter is based on Book 7 itself. I have also had questions about "If You're Hoping I'll Return" and this story is to get me back in the mood to write that. Thanks for reading, though I would love to hear reviews instead of seeing in my inbox how many of you wonderful people are watching or favoriting this story.

Dinner was all right. It wasn't a Weasley dinner, but it consisted of cold pumpkin soup, dinner rolls and a blueberry tart for dessert and not a one of them could complain about that.

"I thought hospital food was supposed to be foul," Hermione observed.

"That's a Muggle rumor," DeWitt said. "Or have any of you been in a hospital?"

"No," Harry said. The Dursleys had balked at taking care of his health and he had been fortunate to not need anything that warranted a hospitalization. "Closest I came was when my cousin had his tonsils out."

It had been when Harry was seven. Dudley had been more insufferable than usual, whinging that he didn't have enough ice cream for his healing throat and making Aunt Petunia wait on him hand and foot. In spite of Petunia's protestations that she didn't mind mothering her Diddykins one bit, Vernon had tried to force Harry into the usual role of servant. The drawback of Diddykin's painkillers were that he tended to be groggy and regularly screamed in terror when Harry entered the room. Harry was banished back to his cupboard and he hadn't minded.

"Really," Eccleston said with genuine interest. "Our kind don't need that, since they can do an Anti-Inflammation Incantation or take a variety of potions once the problem manifests itself."

"Yeah," Harry said. "My uncle wouldn't have stood for it."

"I haven't needed a Muggle hospital, either," Hermione said. "I never seemed to get into trouble until I met these two."

Ron looked vaguely flattered by that mild accusation.

"Well, I can't vouch for the food in the hospital proper," Eccleston said, "but we Mind Healers think that comfort food does wonders for what we're trying to accomplish."

"Nice thought," Harry commended. "Keep up the good work."

As soon as they had finished the tart, DeWitt waved his wand and the plates vanished. "Would any of you like a draught for dreamless sleep?" he offered.

"No, thank you," Harry said quickly. He remembered vividly how quickly sleep had taken him when he'd been given that potion after the Third Task in his fourth year and it didn't appeal to him. Not if they were to borrow one of the Pensieves. "I don't think we'll have trouble falling asleep tonight."

Eccleston frowned and seemed to be on the verge of saying that _that _wasn't the point. She restrained herself and stood up from the chair where she had been enjoying her own dinner.

"If you should change your mind—or if you require anything else before tomorrow morning—light your wands. Our sensors will let us know of your need."

"Thank you," Hermione said.

Ron waited until the Healers had closed the door behind them and retreated down the hallway, and then re-cast the muffliato charm in case the sensors had ears. "All right," he said with the solemnity of a general planning his attack, "when do we act?"

"Does it have to be tonight?" Hermione asked. "I can ask some questions about my potion results and shrink one of the exam room Pensieves while they've got their backs turned."

"Well, no," Harry said, "it doesn't have to be tonight. But they'll be asking loads of questions tomorrow and I'd like to give you some answers and a chance to ask your own before they get to work."

Ron nodded. "Then it has to be tonight," he said firmly. Apparently, he no longer felt the need to agree with everything Hermione suggested. "Hermione, you're our girl."

"I beg your _pardon_," she said archly. "I don't have any experience…"

Harry turned the word "boomslang" into a cough, while Ron sneezed "cloak." Out of the three of them, Hermione had the best success record in sneaking around. Harry had once gotten caught in a trick stair for the length of an entire conversation between Snape, Barty Crouch, Jr. and Filch. Ron had usually left the sneaking around to his trickster twin brothers.

"All right," Hermione sighed after a few more feeble attempts at arguing her way out of this one. "Harry, I'll need your Invisibility Cloak."

"Left it with Flitwick," Harry said. "We needed a way to hide Snape."

"But if their wards let them know when we perform a _lumos_ spell, they'll probably tell if we cast a disillusionment charm," Hermione protested. "I can't very well sneak out."

"Yes, you can," Ron said. "Do you have any Extendable Ears?"

"Yes," she said slowly, summoning them from her beaded bag. "What's your idea?"

"They can't stay up all night or they'll fall asleep in the middle of their torture sessions," Ron pointed out. "We'll wait until one or both of them goes to lie down, detonate a decoy near the other's desk and have you escape while they're clearing up the confusion."

She considered that for a moment. "That may work," she conceded. "I'll wait for your signal."

They had to retract the Extendables twice when the Healers came to check on them, but they lay quite still in their beds except for Ron. Their strategist snored so theatrically that they might not have been able to sleep through it. Eccleston clearly had the same idea, since she muttered, "_Silencio" _at Ron and he fell silent. Harry had to suppress the urge to chuckle and instead focused on breathing deeply and evenly.

After a while, though, Ron yanked the Extendable Ear from his own ear and nodded firmly. "Be ready to go on my mark," he hissed. "Harry, you go first."

Harry nodded back and slid out of his bed. The last of their decoy detonators was being used for this task, which was also handy since there wouldn't be any evidence left over. At Ron's signal and as soon as Hermione was in place, he tilted the detonator onto the floor and gave it a gentle nudge in the direction of another room. It had just passed the door of Room 6 when it went off. A moment later, DeWitt went streaking past and Hermione quietly slipped from the room.

She made it back just in time. They had heard the two Healers on duty trying to find their way to the detonator itself. Another patient helped by coming out to ask questions and when Hermione ducked back into the room, she was wearing a guilty expression.

"I didn't mean to disturb other people," she whispered.

"Nor did I," Harry pointed out, "but he seems to be all right. You got it?"

She reached into the pocket of her pajamas and pulled out a disc the size of a Galleon, but the color of a Sickle. _"Engorgio,"_ she whispered.

A few moments later, the Pensieve was its usual size and Ron grinned at her in a congratulatory sort of way. "Well done. When do we start?"

Hermione was giving him a slightly nervous look. "You do know how to work it, don't you?" she asked. "It's not something we covered, but you've seen others set it up."

"I saw Dumbledore do it a few times," Harry said. "I think I understand."

He placed the tip of his wand at his temple and concentrated very hard on the memories he wanted to share. They bubbled to the surface of his mind and he drew the wand away, bringing with it the strand of memory. It took several repetitions of this motion before he was sure that he had gotten it all, since other details of that event kept coming to him with vivid clarity. Finally, he had enough to nearly fill the bowl of the Pensieve and he stowed his wand in his pocket.

"Ladies first," Ron suggested.

"How?" Hermione asked.

"Touch it with your face," Harry instructed. "We'll follow soon after."

He made Ron go next and came immediately after, touching down lightly in his own memory of Dumbledore's office. Hermione and Ron were standing on either side of his prone form. Harry was still lying where he had fallen after leaving Snape's memory. For a long moment, Harry thought that the memory had somehow frozen in time, since he was still lying as though paralyzed on the dusty carpet.

And then he saw that his hands were trembling. He had consciously decided to let them. And then, as he was doing now, he had sat up. Still, Hermione and Ron did not move or speak. They were as silent and still as though they were in attendance at his funeral.

But when the Pensieve Harry stood and left the office, they moved to the real Harry's side. Hermione's hand found his and clutched his fingers tightly. Harry had chosen to be alone at this time in the memory, but his two best friends were not about to let him wander off to relive this on his own. He was grateful for the silent demonstration of support.

Hermione flinched at certain points during his trek through the castle. She did not comment, but Harry followed her gaze to the destruction and the stains of blood that no one had thought to clear away in the eye of the storm.

The Pensieve Harry pulled out his Invisibility Cloak and Harry quickened his pace, taking charge of their journey until they reached the entrance hall.

"But we know all this," Ron said in a low voice. "You told us about…"

"I didn't show you," Harry replied. "And I don't think you felt comfortable asking questions. I want you to know everything."

"And you think we'll ask them now?" Ron asked.

"I don't think Hermione could stop herself and I don't want either of you to hold back," Harry insisted. "You've earned it."

Ron nodded and Hermione's grip on Harry's hand tightened. "Go on," she urged him quietly.

At the base of the stairs, they sidestepped Wood and Neville and maintained their silence as Colin Creevey was carried past them.

The four of them were now alone with Neville and the burden that he yet had to bear. When he left the castle to go onto the battlefield, Ron followed him without question. Of course Harry would have gone with him, should have been with him. But Harry remained shrouded in the Invisibility Cloak.

In the silence of the entrance hall, he heard his own footsteps almost marching down the steps. He and Hermione followed Ron to where Neville was bending almost arthritically over some other fallen warrior. And when the other Harry pulled the Cloak off, Ron was caught between the two friends.

"Neville," the other Harry said quietly.

Neville nearly fell over in shock, but steadied himself against the ground, and then straightened up. "Blimey, Hary," he gasped. "You nearly gave me heart failure."

There was no time for apologies or explanations. There was just enough time to set things in motion and move on.

"Where are you going alone?"

Neville, the boy who had started Hogwarts afraid of his own shadow at times, had evolved into the kind of leader that Dumbledore's Army had needed in Harry's absence. And part of that leadership was his selfless habit of looking out for the others.

"It's all part of the plan," Harry said, his voice sounding hollow as though everything but his purpose had been drained from him. "There's something I've got to do." He saw the spark of understanding in Neville's eyes and his friend's jaw clenched. "Listen—Neville—"

"Harry," Neville said sharply, his eyes dilated with fear. "Harry, you're not thinking of handing yourself over."

"No." He had tried to sound casual as if he were off to the library to find a book. "'Course not…this is something else."

He had felt a pang of guilt at Neville's relief. He had known that Neville was not worried that Harry would leave him in charge or anything like that. His concern had been that Harry would feel he had no other options left.

"But I might be out of sight for a while. You know Voldemort's snake, Neville? He's got a huge snake…Calls it Nagini…"

"I've heard, yeah…" Neville drew a deep, nervous breath. "What about it?"

"It's got to be killed. Ron and Hermione know that, but just in case they—"

"Are having a snog," Ron filled in.

"Can't wield a sword," Hermione supplied. Her voice was thick with emotion, as she comprehended what Harry had meant by this conversation. "Or aren't as brave as Neville Longbottom."

"Just in case they're—busy—and you get the chance—" Harry stammered.

"Kill the snake?"

"Kill the snake." His voice was quite steady now.

"All right, Harry," Neville said loyally. "You're okay, are you?"

"I'm fine," Harry lied again. "Thanks, Neville."

In one more moment of bravery, Neville gripped Harry's wrist and gave him an odd benediction. "We're all going to keep fighting, Harry. You know that?"

"Yeah, I—"

Neville patted Harry on the shoulder and walked on.

He had not been able to explain himself. He had hoped that his death would shorten the battle. He had believed that with the last Horcrux destroyed with the Boy-Who-Lived and Neville's pledge to take care of Nagini, Voldemort's defeat would be a simple thing. The prophecy had said that neither could live while the other survived, but it had never plainly said that no other man or woman could face Voldemort in his weakened state. He had put his faith in every person who remained behind and had forbidden himself to think that Ron or Hermione would be the next to take on the Dark Lord.

They stayed with Harry to see Ginny's bravery, her compassion towards a girl he had still not identified. This time, it was Hermione who left his side to be with a friend. Ron followed and Harry stood by his own side. Neither of them could have changed this solitary vigil, but she bore witness to it and someday, if Ginny were ready to speak about that night, Hermione would understand.

"We didn't know where she'd gone," Ron said. "She couldn't stay with us when all we felt like doing was grieving. With you missing and Voldemort still waiting for your surrender…"

"She wanted to be alone," Hermione added, tears in her eyes. "She never said where she was."

Ron crouched next to his sister and would have held her or at least rested a hand on her shoulder if he could have. Instead, he waited in silence with her for a few moments and then straightened up and walked on with a bravery of his own.

They skirted the grounds near Hagrid's cabin, reached the swarm of dementors at the Forbidden Forest's edge and stopped when both Harrys came to a halt. In the silence, as if a ghost from another lifetime were speaking, they heard the whisper.

"I am about to die."

At this moment, he had only heard the movements of his guardians, his familiar Patronuses. Ron's breathing was ragged, but Hermione's was hitching around tears that she had not shed in the original retelling of this story. Because this was his memory, his friends could see the figures of his loved ones who had gone before. Hermione remained rooted on the spot as his mother came to her side, while Ron stood near Sirius.

"You've been so brave," his mother said, her praise almost powerful enough to warm the early morning air.

"You are nearly there," his father said. "Very close. We are…" His own voice trailed off for a moment. James Potter had struggled to find the best words, the seemingly inadequate words that would give his son protection to carry on. "So proud of you."

"Does it hurt?"

Hermione's sobs became audible now, since he had described this trek to them, but had omitted the dialogue. His final words before facing Voldemort hadn't seemed necessary at the time.

"Dying?" Sirius said, his voice almost convincingly casual. "Not at all. Quicker and easier than falling asleep."

"And he will want it to be quick. He wants it to be over."

They had told him so many comforting things, all of them possibly lies, but all of them the deepest hopes of their hearts. He rewarded their honesty with the most honest thing he could have said to those who had died in his place.

"I didn't want you to die. Any of you. I'm sorry…" The Harry who had chosen to come into this memory looked to Lupin again out of instinct. "Right after you'd had your son…Remus, I'm sorry."

It had been the first time that he had addressed Lupin by his first name, always seeing him as a mentor rather than an equal. He had called him by name because the man who had returned to be his protector so soon after falling in battle could not be addressed on formal terms.

"I am sorry too," Remus said. "Sorry I will never know him…but he will know why I died and I hope he will understand. I was trying to make a world in which he could live a happier life."

And then Dumbledore's words came back to Harry: "_Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"_

With all of his protectors having weighed in, he could have made no excuse for having delayed any longer.

"You'll stay with me?"

"Until the very end," his father said fervently.

"They won't be able to see you?"

"We are part of you," Sirius said. "Invisible to anyone else."

With one last look at his mother, the woman whose blood had set this journey in motion, the other Harry nodded. "Stay close to me."

Hermione's hand reached his again and Ron came to his side as though they were taking up the pledge to stay with him.

"Why not us?" Hermione asked.

This was the question that Harry had anticipated. And it was one of the chief reasons why he had wanted to bring them into this memory.

"I couldn't," Harry said.

"Because you thought we'd get in the way?" Ron guessed.

"Because…" His mind recalled a time that Ron had lierally gotten in the way. "Don't you remember the Shrieking Shack?"

Hermione nodded, clearly remembering a Ronald Weasley who had stood up to a convicted murderer on his only unbroken leg.

_"If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill us too!"_

And he remembered how almost every person in the Great Hall had stood between him and Pansy Parkinson when she suggested sacrificing Harry Potter to save the rest of them.

"I knew that if I asked you, if I gave you the choice…" He was unable to speak for several moments. "I knew you would have come with me. You left Hogwarts so I wouldn't do this alone," he said almost inaudibly. "You would have stood between me and Voldemort if you could have. You would have risked death if it meant weakening him. You've done it before."

"We never wanted this to be your burden alone," Hermione hiccupped. "If you had asked us to stand behind you, we would have found the courage to do that."

"But then you would have been his targets as well," Harry protested. "I couldn't give myself any way out. I couldn't…"

He was having trouble expressing himself again. There were no words to properly explain what it had taken to approach his own slaughter.

"Take your time, mate," Ron encouraged.

They were still walking, still making the long trek to the clearing where the Death Eaters had gathered. Harry could only mark time by the presence of his parents, Sirius and Lupin.

"I always knew that it would come down to me and Voldemort," Harry said. "I didn't want anyone else to have to be involved."

It was a feeble-sounding explanation, but it was the best that he could do. And a little ways ahead, he heard the brief conversation between Yaxley and Dolohov. Harry _had _mentioned that they had been the last obstacle to reaching Voldemort, so Ron and Hermione now knew how close they were to the fatal moment.

"We can return," he offered.

"No," Hermione responded immediately. She had finally stopped crying and her voice was firm if not entirely steady. "We'll stay with you."

"Until the end," Ron echoed James' promise.

Even in the memory, Hermione stood as far away from Bellatrix Lestrange as possible. They chose instead to stand by Hagrid, their one other ally.

"My Lord—" Bellatrix crooned.

Voldemort lifted a hand. "I thought he would come. I expected him to come."

There was a flicker of motion in the forest behind the gathered Death Eaters as the other Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak. Hermione's nails dug into the back of his hand reflexively.

"I was, it seems…mistaken," Voldemort said to himself.

"You _weren't_."

Harry had possibly made a habit of defying Voldemort, born out of that first duel in the graveyard at Little Hangleton. But this declaration had been a different kind of defiance, a bold statement that he was just as preposterously brave as Voldemort had reckoned.

The figures around him vanished as he stepped into the clearing.

"HARRY!" Hagrid roared. "NO!"

The other Harry turned towards them all and Harry was not surprised to see the blazing look of determination on his face.

"NO! NO! HARRY, WHAT'RE YEH…"

Rowle silenced Hagrid and anticipation silenced the rest. Even Ron and Hermione, who knew the rest of the story, seemed unable to breathe.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort breathed. "The Boy Who Lived."

The other Harry stood tall and fearless, having nothing to lose but his own life. He did not flinch as Voldemort shrieked the curse and the jet of green light blasted him in the chest so that he fell boneless and gracelessly onto his face, having put up no further resistance.

And then, the memory utterly spent, they were pulled out of the Pensieve and onto the floor of their room at St. Mungo's.

ur document here...


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